


from grace

by LovelyLessie



Series: Steeply, Swiftly [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, X-Factor (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Gen, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 22:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2363999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLessie/pseuds/LovelyLessie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Alright," he says to himself, and counts out six more tablets from the bottle which he lines up tidily on the bedside table. [Inclusive Marvel universe, after Warren loses his wings.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	from grace

**Author's Note:**

> Prelude to my other fic **when you land**. Warnings: suicide, drug overdose, discussion of hospitalization and surgery, emetophobia. Brief reference to homophobia as well.

The call from his father is not why he does it, but it does happen on the same day, and it is why he writes the letter.

He’s known he was going to do it since his first week in the hospital. Maybe it happens sooner, because of the call from his father. But he’s known he was going to do it. He’s been planning for it.

So at the end of his first week as an outpatient since the operation - an exhausting week of talking to the press, of giving quotes, of listening to televised conferences where his father talks about his  _dear beloved son -_ Warren Worthington III hangs up the phone and begins drafting his suicide note.

He’s actually already written up a few pages for his teammates, with his apologies and his love for them, and he’s written a short letter to his mother, and a red herring note which is for the press to get their greedy hands on instead of the real ones.

He hasn’t written to his father at all; he hasn’t known what to say.

Warren K Worthington Jr has had very little interest in his only son’s life for the past few years, and his sudden renewed concern for Warren’s well-being coincides conveniently with the chance to strip him of his mutation, something he’s been under pressure to allow since he was seventeen.

He doesn’t actually  _know_  whether his father is concerned about him, to be honest, but he does know he’s been cut off from the family for years, and he knows his father believes that wealth is  _everything._

Maybe for him it is, but not for Warren. There’s no incentive high enough that he’d give up willingly something he can’t live without.

 _That’s_  why his father pulled his  _will_  out of the equation.

That evening he doesn’t eat dinner; instead he takes his medication without it and sits outside to watch the sun set over the Catskills and shadow settle in the valley around the lodge.

When the last of the light’s leeched out of the sky, he returns inside in silence and sits down at the desk in the den to write the letter.

 _Dear Father,_  it reads.

> _I know I haven’t been the son you wished you had. I know you’re not proud to be my father, and didn’t want me as your heir. I know you thought I would grow up to be a model citizen and take over the company from you and help it prosper._
> 
> _But we both know that went wrong._
> 
> _I understand. You have the company’s image to think about, and I guess I don’t exactly fit it even now. And I know what you think about people like me, and that I’m not an exception, or anything._
> 
> _I guess now you’re willing to compromise, so I can be the gay son as long as I’m not the mutant son. Okay, fine. My wings are gone and I can be the nice, normal kid you thought you had before. The kid you want me to be instead so you can at least pretend to like me._
> 
> _Here he fucking is, Dad._
> 
> _Warren._

He finishes the letter and seals it up and puts it on the bedside table next to the bottle with his Vicodin and the half-empty glass of water.

That done, he double-checks how many tablets he’s taken today. One when he woke up - one before lunch - one in the early afternoon - one just now without dinner. That comes to four. 

He digs out the paperwork to reexamine the dosing instructions, which read  _take 1-2 tablets every 4-6 hours, NO MORE than 8 tablets (40 mg) in one day._

"Alright," he says to himself, and counts out six more tablets from the bottle which he lines up tidily on the bedside table. 

He shoves the papers back into the desk drawer and shuffles into the kitchen to make himself something little to eat. 

As he spreads strawberry jelly on a slice toast, it occurs to him that this isn’t exactly a spectacular last meal. Maybe it would be more fitting to go somewhere, spend some money. Order a steak, maybe. 

He isn’t hungry enough for it, and it’s late, he doesn’t have the energy to go anywhere anyways, so toast and jelly it is. Probably something some tabloid will embellish in a few days, but he decides it doesn’t matter much now.

He means to wait until four hours pass from the last dose, but he’s not that patient.

A little before one, he settles into bed and swallows two tablets with a sip of water. He’s already numbed out from the last dose, but he feels them kick in from the weight that settles in his arms and legs. 

He  _did_  take the last one not so long ago, he thinks, and wonders if maybe three is enough. Probably not - he knows it comes in doses higher than his. Better to take the rest and be sure. He’s  _fairly_  sure, after all, that it should be enough to take him out.

Besides, he’s more likely to go all the way under if he takes the other four, too, and he’d rather be asleep.

His head starts to get fuzzy after the next two, and he tries to fight off the hazy feeling. He’s just got to stay lucid for a little longer, long enough to take the last two tablets. Another half an hour, so the system shock doesn’t make him sick.

Time slows down to a crawl. He feels sick anyways, keeps swallowing against nausea creeping up his throat. He’s  _not_  going to puke now.

His eyes are heavy, too, now, and his chest. He could sleep now, if he wasn’t so worried about throwing the pills back up. 

Thirty minutes feels like thirty days, but it passes.

With an effort he pushes himself up and drops the last two tablets onto his tongue. The drowsiness is setting in, thank God. He drains his glass and swallows, settling back against the pillows again.

One last thing, he remembers. One last thing before he falls asleep.

He’s been waiting to do it until he was ready; he wants it to be the last thing. For everyone else the notes, he thinks, should be sufficient, but he wants Scott to hear his voice.

He fumbles for the phone on the bedside table and punches in the number, his fingers clumsy and stiff. 

Part of him hopes, as he waits for the answering machine, that Scott will pick up the phone, but he doesn’t know if he wants to face it.

In the dark on the other end of the line he hears the phone ring.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like a resolution to this, as I suspect you probably do, I'd advise you to immediately go read [when you land](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2359448/chapters/5207483), which picks up where this leaves off.


End file.
